Unravel
by AnonymousAngloSaxon
Summary: Three short drabble like stories. Features Raph, Mike, drugs, some violence, and a lot of language.
1. Kids

"And after Leo kills us, Splinter will triple kill us. And I can totally see Donnie taking a leak on our graves..."

"Quit sniveling or I'm going to kill you before god, Leo or Splinter ever get a chance."

Snivel.

"OW! Waphie...? I think I'm dead. We should go home."

"Ugh, why did I bring It along?"

"Splinter says you have to quit objectifying me if we want to be able to work as a kick-ass ninja team someday."

"Master did not say kick-ass and shut-up, I need help lifting the manhole."

A moment of grunting, squeals, and obscenities...

"Shhh! C'mon, get up."

One am-ish in the dark New York City alley welcomed teenie bopping pre-ninjas Michelangelo and Raphael with a crisp fall breeze heavily laden with the scent of trash and nearby human scum. The brothers looked at each other and witnessed a mirrored expression of fear and remorse, before slinking pseudo-silently into the shadows and quietly exhaling their first, disappointing breath of independence in thirteen years. Five young hooligans conversed in obnoxiously loud hushed tones, while a still younger hooligan whimpered against the edge of the alley wall he was futilely trying to sink into.

"He's my brother and he has Purple Dragon in his blood! We ain't doing nothing to him!"

"Yeah? That little shit looks like a narc to me, and if you twos got all this blood in common I guess that makes you a narc too, huh, Louis?"

"Just back the fuck off. We're going home."

"Like fuck you are! I'm going to jail because of that douche-bag, and I'm going to make sure nobody ever makes the mistake of associatin' with either of youse again," Hooligan Speaker No. 1 threatened as he pulled out Switchy, his switch-blade knife and material evidence of Hooligan Speaker No. 1's failure to show up for his creative writing elective all semester. Soon to-be Ex. PD Senior (Louis) backed away, coming to a protective stance over his little brother, Narc Face. Mute Hooligans No.s 2, 3, and 4 flanked No.1 and advanced, blades and blunt objects drawn.

Meanwhile, in the shadows, Mikey prayed and Raphael got to his feet. Head full of human horror stories, Raphael never planned on taking his little bro top side unarmed. The single sai he gripped as he pulled Mike to his feet had come from the wrack of real weapons on the Off-Limits to All Young Turtles Shelf.

"We've been trained for this. Calm down and get your bokken out. We're about to save those idiots."

Obviously, none of the involved hooligans expected to be attacked by mutants that night, which was helpful in their speedy dispersal. Suddenly, instead of two puny Narcensons, a raging four foot turtle with a fancy fork faced Hooligan No. 1, who proceeded to scream like a girl and fall on his ass, before getting his alternative cheeks pummeled by righteous Raphael freedom fists. Raph quit referring to his fists as "freedom fists" several months later when Donatello overheard a conversation between Liberty Lefty, Righteous Righty, and Raphael one morning. Raph's dignity would live to rue the day, but it would never be the same.

Jumping back up to rest on Hooligan No. 1's stomach, Raph ducked a hockey stick and slashed Mute Hooligan No. 3 across the chest. Ex. PD Senior (Louis), recovering somewhat, began trying to pull his brother, Narc Face Narcenson off the ground and out of the alley.

Mike growled and kicked Mute Hooligan No. 3 in the groin, before the whole lot of scum managed to flee the nightmarish scene, leaving the two brave turtles panting adrenaline, pride, and still more fear in their wake.

"We did it..." Raphael whispered in awe, glancing down at a freshly bloody sai, glinting a morbid pink reflection of the nearest street-light.

"We have to get out of here," a now openly hysterical Mike whispered back, looking everywhere but at the bloody sai. Raph tore his gaze away from the sai and to his scared little bro. Then he looked at the empty alley, at the meager debris his first adversaries had left behind, and then at the pale night sky he had longed to see for so long. The sky was a disconcerting shade of sulfur and bruised purple, very unlike the inky, star studded lie television and naivety had led him to dream of. Of course, light pollution and blah blah Donnie talking....

He took Mike's hand and led him two steps back to the still open manhole before tripping over young Narc Face's back-pack.

"Uuhh..."

"Maybe there's food in there," a hopeful Mikey, slung the bag over his back and helped his bro up. Raph wiped the rest of the tears of his brother's face, and hurried them both back to the underground--where they belonged.

In the atrium before the secret entrance to the turtle lair, Raphael stopped Michelangelo, and turned on their flashlight.

"Let's open it here. Alright? Maybe there's cash...and we can get a pizza before sneaking back in, huh?" Raph doubted that the ragged Narc Face kept sufficient funds in his school bag, or that the two turtles had the heart to venture above ground again long enough to con a pie joint, but he knew that if he didn't get Mikey to quit breathing like an asthmatic moon pug, the both of them were going to get busted big time.

1 Pre-Algebra textbook.

1 half-eaten pack of Twinkies.

47 cents.

1 Pocket knife.

2 handfuls of crumpled loose-leaf.

1 black BIC lighter

1 report card as follows:

James Roper (Narc Face Narcenson's real name?)

C+ English

A Pre-Algebra

B- Biology

D Civics

F Home Ec.

A- Art

3 pieces of melted Double-mint gum

1 glass blown pipe.

2 copies of one nondescript key.

4 green M&Ms

1 partially filled Composition notebook--doodles and homework inside.

1 cellophane-wrapped dub of marijuana.

9 paper clips, plain. (4 intact, 5 straightened)

Raph removed the green, the pipe, the lighter, and the pocket knife. Mikey removed the untouched Twinkie and two of the green M&Ms and closed the bag.

"What are you going to do with that stuff Raph?" Mike voiced the question bouncing through his brother's brain. A plethora of PSAs and Splinter's warnings had taught Raph what was supposed to be done with this green leafy substance and glass pipe. Apparently, most normal teenagers smoked it, became lazy and screwed The Man in the process. Raph was all for screwing The Man, and curious about the attraction of "getting high." Allegedly, it was awesome. Why else would one neglect their dog, or lose the faith of younger siblings, or let down adult role models by smoking marijuana?

Yes, PSAs miserably failed Raph, Mike, and a majority of the nation's youth that year. Raph wanted to be normal, and he wanted his brother to quit crying and be happy. From what he'd heard, marijuana could take care of both.

"Come on Mike, let's go to The Grate. This won't take long."


	2. Electric Feel

"Number one--stop caressing my face!" Mike stopped caressing Raph's face but neglected to wipe the stupid grin off his face, which resulted in

TWACK. "B, why is your shell phosphorescent fuchsia? Where is my BIKE, and four, what the fuck do you think you're doing coming home on e at four in the morning?" Mike giggled and also had this to say,

"Hommie, I think you missed a few numbers, er, letters in there." Brief violence ensued before,

"Fuck fuck, knock it off, bro! I can explain...molly, not e. One time deal, I swear. Puhlease, do not tell Splinter. Or Leo! Or Don...don't tell anyone?"

"There won't be a need after I murder you and sell your body to science. Congrats, little bro, you just might be a prime contributor to the cure for cancer."

"Rappphh..." The whining invoked another brief bout of violence.

Afterwards, a chagrined yet still grinning orange-clad turtle followed a darker, bulkier turtle wearing red(and easily visible due to the smoke emitting from his nostrils)all the way to the nearest manhole.

"Now. You explain. I can't wait to hear the bullshit which will ultimately fail to save your tail."

"It's kinda a long story...Okay! Okay! I think I've sustained enough brain damage for one night. Jeeze."

-----------------

_Remember a month or two ago when I ran into some PD trouble? Didn't get back till late the next night. Yeah...well, that story was somewhat true. I went out to draw the full moon against the skyline with my new charcoals. It was going to be super sweet. I'd been plotting for days. And uh, maybe smoke a little pot while I was at it. But I guess you guys know that's been going on, huh? Whatever, that's not the point. I was finishing up the last few street lights when down in the alley of the building I was on, something periwinkle blue screamed and steel flashed. This is where the PDs come in, and their role in my story is to get their asses kicked. The important part is the blue wig I tripped over real slick like as I went to assist the lovely young lady who'd been wearing it._

_The sexy black eye rising and disfiguring her face complemented the auburn tones in her dark brunette hair. Moonlight shone from the snot and blood gushing from her cute little nose. Oh and Raph--her tits rising and falling as she panted with...._

-----------

"MIKEY! This is NOT a letter to Penthouse. Get on with it!"

"Right. Right. But bro, she was wearing her green push-up that night. I'm trying to tell you--it was destiny! No wonder she got mugged, she was wearing this semi-see-through little black dress, the fucking PD's had half ripped off."

"I swear to god if I have to insert myself again! You saved a hooker. Move on."

"Steph is not a hooker! She can't help her cutitude. It's all dna--I figured you of all nonpeople would understand."

* * *

_ANYway. Assault and prompt rescue by a mutant ninja turtle did not quite have the April-effect on Steph because at this juncture in her evening, Stephanie Peterson was at least five or six bowls ahead of me. She was coming back from a Sarah Lawrence party, explaining both the SLIGHT skankitude, and lack of adequately sane reaction._

_"That shit was laced...note to self: kill Jill."_

_"Are you okay? I'm Mikey, your friendly neighborhood mutant vigilante. Let me help you home...or to a hospital."_

_"Hospital hospital...I can't afford a hospital! ...Are you a cop? Because I'm not high. Shit..." So I laughed at the helpless stoned coed, and pulled her to her half-broken stiletto-tortured feet, and kept her vertical when gravity instantly attempted to reclaim her. In your face Gravity._

_"Look, you want a ride and a tfln for the books, or can you make it on your own? This spot's kinda out in the open for me." One hand on my shoulder, Steph preformed the classic, Holy Shit That's not a Mask check, and then the Holy Shit I'm Not that High self-check._

_"Holy shit..." She glanced at my weapons, and at the fallen PD, and at her broken shoes and torn dress. Then, she gave me directions to her apartment, and I showed her NYC from the bird's eye. So, I know I should have dropped her off, made sure she didn't have a concussion, and bounced back home like the amateur delinquent I once was. But, I already told you what she was wearing, and how do you tell a stoner from someone with head trauma? Impossible! They call me Maurice, not Dr. Neurologist._

* * *

"Cute."

"Thanks."

* * *

_You know our origin story, right? Of course...She seemed to get it after the third telling and our second joint. Four pizzas, and an entire gram later, we had exchanged homemade bff bracelets, and her luscious hair had been mutilated by my many braiding experiments. We even sacrificed several roach clips to the endeavor, but to no avail. She put a hat on eventually, and to this day, I don't know how her hair recovered. One of the great mysteries of our time._

_She couldn't believe I was real even post-bracelets. So we got each others' digits and I saw her again a few days later. And then again a week after that. And then the next night and the next night.

* * *

_

"And that is where I have been spending all my time."

"I'm still waiting for the great x excuse."

"Molly! And, some friends of Steph threw a rave in an abandoned warehouse. Me and Steph spent most of the night in the rafters--totally unseeable."

"Your shell is fuchsia!"

"Right, because when people at a rave see a circular fuchsia object in the sky--their first thought is to call the government because a mutant turtle and his girlfriend are up there dancing and in need of some immediate dissection."

"..."

"Can I have a few minutes to write up a will?"

"You know why I'm maddatya Mike?"

"Uh...hang on, I'll make a list."

TWACK.

"..."

"Because you're making me be Leo tonight. And that pisses me off."

"You're going to tell aren't you?"

"No. But your Mystery Machine days are over. You don't go out without telling someone where you're going. And tomorrow, I get to meet this Steph chick. Do NOT think I am above random drug testing."

"Your kidding? That's it?"

"Fuck no! Are you high? Oh, that's right. I'll give you a list sometime tomorrow...I mean today. And Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm disappointed in ya."


	3. Time to Pretend

_**A/N: **How hopelessly emo is this? On a scale of 1 to Avril Lavigne...?_

* * *

"Mikey! Mike where the hell are you?"

"Uhh, Raph?"

"Oh shit oh shit.." He gave an address that flew by me. "Near Alfonso's Pie Parlor by Ape's house, ya know the one? Hurry...Fuck!" Click.

And that's how it happened. This is how the little voice of who I used to be, that ceaseless protester that told me I was out of control, became a roar. A True, inescapable roar, cornering me in my failure.

I'm _high_. I can't move, let alone rescue my brothers. Let alone be there when my family is destroyed. Let alone say goodbye. The flow of traffic lights on Steph's bedroom ceiling winks death in my direction. A truck passes, and so does Leo. A neon sign blinks, and I'll never see Donnie again. Brights flick on as Raph bleeds out and I'm miles away, left behind in happy stagnation. Life is untethered by metaphysical death. Air bows aside for my shaking hand, and the cigarette lights itself. Things will be easy now, I suppose, and I wish I could vomit at the realization of how quickly I'm allowed me to mourn my brothers. Coming down, too. What a joy...well, too late now. Might as well keep rolling.

At some point, I remember the lit cigarette smoldering between clumsy fingers, and inhale, menthol smooths, the smoke hugs my lungs and licks my fingertips. I shake Steph awake. Puddles of shadows in her eye's concaves ripple at the impact of my voice. My skin and bones drip over time's taught wires. Speak tarry tired automatic--someone else's engine idling. The back of my mind crackles and spits like a skipping radio, like foil wincing around a plastic bottle mouth. I can't remember what I said as soon I say it, and her face doesn't understand either. Her wet, soft fingers tell me that I'm crying and that she loves me. I dislodge in her embrace, and leaning heavily, smashed against the wall of my face, unravel down my spine, flexing in the wind and leaving only tendrils to steady chilled limbs.

Steph twisted on my left arm is a gouged panther, routinely scattering straight paths into oncoming traffic, with her mother's red-brown hair that smells like green apple shampoo and Chanel, lingering across my face. Transluscent shapes, all colours, bright, float around the dark rectangle room blue, emanating from the curves of crushed cans, where the sulfur street and moon white light mingle indistinguishable. It s always hard to isolate the artificial. The room is all sweet cloudy, looming unavoidable, but I m smiling salt and blissfully avalanched with coursing potential. My brain coagulated and kinked, permanently is such an ugly word...

Steph, as conscious as she could be, wrapping her arms around me, wakes me to the moment. Maybe, in the sun, it will all crash. I will be Michelangelo and my brothers will be dead and the world will close on itself until I'm stranded on a sliver of hell for eternity, alone. This is how it should be. It should be unbearable. I should commit sepukku, or self-flagellate--a dramatic gesture of remorse. But I'm blissfully happy as my life crashes around me in rhythmic waves, in tune to the harmonic heart beats shared by me and Stephanie.

Riding swells of pale self-hatred, I get a dim glimpse of the future, red and dark marginalizing the last lights available. In the backdrop of shades and colours, possible timelines shape themselves and reform too quickly to decipher, but the beauty of the experience is that I don't care. I don't care.

And when I finally turn my phone back on, and get Raph's irate voice-mail around four in the afternoon of the next day, I still don't care. And the night after that, I go home to my full and healthy family and I don't care.


End file.
